


in the low lamplight

by stelleri



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 11:15:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21319285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stelleri/pseuds/stelleri
Summary: It’s endless freezing rain outside, but the house is comfortably warm.
Relationships: John Bridgens/Harry Peglar
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019), Trans Terror Week





	in the low lamplight

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt "needle" on my terror bingo card. also for trans terror week, because I, a short gay trans guy, took one (1) look at peglar and got permanently attached

“I hate needles,” Harry mutters. By now the motions are rote, automatic, but if he starts thinking about it too hard or looks too long at the point of the needle – urgh. 

“You handle them alright, though,” John says. “Better than I do.” He graciously offers Harry a piece of his orange before pulling him down for a brief, faintly sticky kiss. 

“Mm. Still. Think I’d be used to them by now.” Harry swings his legs onto the couch and stretches out, grimacing when John immediately slots his feet behind Harry’s knees. He’s always run warm, a fact that John – with his poor circulation and teasing delight in inflicting his cold feet on Harry – takes full advantage of. The sacrifices he makes to keep his husband happy. At least John makes a half-decent ice pack. 

“Are you bribing me for my forgiveness?” Harry asks, mock severe, when John offers him a full half of the orange. He takes it. 

“It works, doesn’t it?” Harry doesn’t dignify that with a response and pretends not to see John’s fond little smile. 

Harry burrows further into his stolen sweater, a brightly-patterned monstrosity that’s large even on John and comfortingly shapeless on Harry. The couch is small and sagging; their legs tangle together easily, and they don’t need to pull out a blanket to ward off the chill. They barely have to reach out to touch, so John does. His hand is featherlight and achingly gentle along the length of Harry’s arm, his fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake, until his fingers finally fold around Harry’s. 

It’s a quiet kind of domesticity that Harry had never expected for himself; had not entirely realized that he’d even want, until he met John. And then it was something he wasn't sure he could _have_, and keep.

It’s endless freezing rain outside, and tomorrow promises to be icy and miserable. But the house is comfortably warm, and neither of them have anywhere to be. Harry leans sideways into the couch and closes his eyes, content.


End file.
